


me too

by nauticalwarrior



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, not super explicit but still potentially triggering, the grimmons could be interpreted as a relationship or as platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticalwarrior/pseuds/nauticalwarrior
Summary: Simmons really should have known better. You can't keep secrets from people who you not only live with but also fight with, laugh with, and cry with. It's just not possible.(read author's note)





	me too

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for self harm, of course. Please don't read this fic if it's going to make you want to hurt yourself. If you need to talk to someone, you can email me at dragonshavebadbreath@gmail.com 
> 
> Self harm is alway a serious issue and there is no such thing as "minor" self harm. Please get help if you have been hurting yourself or if you want to hurt yourself.

Simmons really should have known better. You can't keep secrets from people who you not only live with but also fight with, laugh with, and cry with. It's just not possible.

He really hadn't done a bad job at first. Always wearing long sleeves and either his armor or a jacket, and later on, black capri leggings under his armor or his pants. Being skinny helped to hide the bulk, and as an added bonus it helped with chafing from the armor. He never, ever brought up any sort of mental illness related topics, save for light jokes and the occasional mention of PTSD (because honestly, only Caboose is  _ really  _ free from it at this point). And he never did  _ it  _ near anyone else, when he was expected somewhere, or near a camera. 

He'd had two close calls before this. One not long after he'd started, still at Blood Gulch and before Washington joined their little family. Simmons had been changing where he usually changed- the girl's restroom farthest from the kitchen. Why the red base had women's bathrooms had always confused him, but it never stopped him from taking advantage of it. 

He'd had to stop halfway through putting his shirt on because his stupid arm was bleeding. The flesh one of course; he started this after his operation thank  _ god  _ and obviously couldn't do much to the robot arm. The shirt he was changing into was maroon, not unlike his armor, but a blood stain would still be darker than the cotton fabric and he didn't want to risk it. He had put tentative pressure on the wound until the flow of sticky blood (more like seepage than flow, really) slowed to a stop, the red liquid turning into a rusty scab, his hand smeared with red and the surrounding skin angry and inflamed.

That was when Caboose walked in, wearing his helmet and boxers but nothing else. Simmons is pretty sure the only reason he hadn't heard him coming is his own thoughts were as loud as a speeding train.

Caboose had mostly just stared, looking at Simmons with his face hidden behind orange glass. He had seemed to understand for a brief second, and Simmons almost screamed in frustration. But Caboose had simply shouted “tiger!” and run off without further explanation. Simmons, shaky and tired, had just accepted it, tugged on his shirt and his black hoodie, and walked back to his room. A few days later, Caboose burst out saying that Simmons was secretly a magic blood tiger, but nobody seemed to think anything of it.

So Simmons had kept doing it. The Caboose incident was maybe a month into his... self-discipline. Self-punishment. He'd started out of nowhere, one night of crying and panic attacks becoming too much. He remembers having grabbed his flesh arm with his metal one and squeezing until the only thing he could think about was the pain. A few days later, he stole a box cutter from the base. It was a distraction, a reprieve, and a punishment all in one. The perfect solution. 

At one point he started to get worse. He thinks it was right around when the freelancer stuff really got going. It wasn't anyone's fault, not really. It was just stressful and he didn't feel useful enough and he felt like a failure compared to Washington and he felt like a burden and it just didn't go away. Without him really realizing, the occasional scratch of a blade turned into daily sessions of weeping, gaping wounds. When he couldn't be alone, he'd still pinch and poke his flesh with his metal arm. It worked but wasn't the same. He ran out of room on his arm, so to his leg he went. 

The next close call was after Grif fell and Simmons  _ dropped him.  _ Simmons sliced himself up so badly he thought he was going to die. Wash saw his vitals going crazy on his HUD and radioed him.

“Simmons? Come in, Simmons.” Wash had sounded like he was ready for battle.

“I'm here.” Simmons knew he sounded weak and shaky, but he was busy holding the third towel to his arm and trying to ignore the dizziness. He was so stupid, cutting while having a panic attack. His metal arm didn't have the same mental barrier to causing himself physical harm, so it was too easy to go too far if he wasn't paying attention.

“Are you okay? What's happening?” Washington's stress levels seemed like they were fast approaching maximum.

“I-I’m fine.” Simmons mentally cursed himself for stuttering. “I, uh, had a panic attack. Still kinda having it actually.” There had been a moment of silence on the radio.

“Do you need to... uh, would talking to someone help?” Wash had sounded so awkward, but the sentiment was there.

“No,” Simmons had replied. “I'll be okay in a little bit.”

Simmons still isn't okay, to be honest. But he'd been a lot more okay about two hours ago before everything had gone to shit. Actually, he thinks as he stares at the wall, he was okay about three hours ago. 

He'd been helping with troops at the base. Jensen was being pretty helpful and it was going well until it wasn't. They finished the repair job they'd been working on, and Jensen had something else to do, and nobody was free and Simmons had finished early so he could just. relax. 

He couldn't though. His head had been buzzing, little whispers of  _ you're wasting time  _ and  _ nobody likes a slacker  _ and  _ everyone only keeps you around to work anyway.  _ He tried to find something to do and ended up getting in Bitters’ way. The lieutenant had snapped at him for running into him while trying to find burnt out lights to fix.

“Dude, go and be useless somewhere else. And watch where you're going.” Bitters was just like that, but it still hurt. And these days, Simmons didn't really need an excuse anyway. 

So he had walked up to his quarters on autopilot, shed his armor, grabbed the plastic container he kept his tools in, and walked to the top floor showers, where nobody went this time of day because they were Grif's team's responsibility (and therefore filthy) and they were all hard at work.

Except for Simmons, who was sitting on a bench in a shower stall with the door locked and checked twice and a scalpel he stole from Doctor Grey in his metal hand, his flesh arm bared before him. There wasn't a lot of clean space, but he'd been cutting on top of older cuts with very little consequences lately, so he didn't care. Still, he couldn't put two fresh cuts that close together, so he ended up slicing up the little area right by his armpit and on top of his deltoid, which he'd mostly avoided in the past. His whole arm, from about two inches above where his thumb met his wrist, to the very top of his shoulder, was covered in an array of maroon, brown, and bright red lines. Red team, even in his veins. He got the job done, wrapped his arm in gauze, slid on a long sleeve shirt, and put on a jacket, wincing. He'd been a little rougher than usual, and a pair of cuts turned out deeper than he usually liked them to. Using the shower spray, he washed off the scalpel and the floor, carefully cleaning every last drop.

Simmons went back to his quarters to lie down, a little light-headed and a lot tired. He stumbled into his bunk, only to look across the room and see Grif staring back at him.

“Hey.” Grif had sounded about as relaxed as usual, lying down in his bunk, wearing only a pair of orange shorts and a white t-shirt.

“What are you doing here?” Simmons voice had cracked a lot more that it usually would when talking to Grif, who  _ must  _ have noticed but had no visible reaction. 

“I could ask you the same thing. As for me, I'm on break.” Grif yawned, stretching. 

“I'm done with all of my work.” Normally Simmons would have argued with Grif about how he should be working, but Simmons was far too tired. He had laid down and shut his eyes for just a second, probably hearing some sort of sound from Grif but not registering it fully. Looking back, Simmons should have paid better attention. He would have gotten a warning at least. 

A warm hand came down gently, just between his flesh shoulder and back, on really the only part of him that you could call “arm” that wasn't metal or cut up. Simmons looked up and saw Grif's face, a tight frown on his lips.

“Dude, what happened?” Grif was pretty close to as alarmed as he gets, but his voice was only a touch higher than usual, his words only a touch faster.

Simmons had looked at his own arm and saw the dark patch pooling from his upper arm, his jacket open just enough to reveal the almost-black stain of blood on the dark green fabric. The first thing that came to Simmons’s mind was that he must have reopened at least the two deeper cuts, maybe more. The second thing was that  _ Grif  _ saw his blood. So he had done what was possibly the worst thing to do.

“I'm fine!” He had squeaked and jerked away, wrapping his jacket up to cover the still growing stain. What he  _ should  _ have done was act only mildly concerned and leave, claiming to be on his way to Doctor Grey.

But he didn't, and he saw Grif's face shift from just concern to a mixture of concern, confusion, and  _ suspicion.  _

“Okay, calm down.” Grif had held up both hands, like Simmons was a scared animal. “What happened?” 

Simmons did not calm down. “Nothing happened! Fuck off!” His heart had been racing, blood pounding in his ears and anxiety fast approaching maximum levels.

“Okay, okay.” Grif didn't move, but Simmons still pushed himself against the wall, wishing he wasn't  _ trapped  _ in the bunk with Grif blocking his only way out. “Nothing happened. Breathe.” 

Simmons knows now that he had been shaking and only taking in small, choked breaths, but at the time he had only been focused on getting out of this mess without Grif finding out.

It wasn't the first time Grif had seen Simmons have a panic attack. That was ages ago, at Blood Gulch before Caboose or Donut showed up but after the blues lost their CO, Flowers. 

Simmons can't even remember exactly what happened, but he was cleaning the base and his throat had started tightening and he couldn't make himself breathe and tears were leaking out of his wide eyes and Grif had been scared, but he still talked to Simmons even though Simmons didn't reply. He had guided Simmons to sitting down with his head between his knees and he had aimlessly rambled about stupid shit interspersed with  _ you're okay  _ and  _ breathe _ . They didn't talk about it, but whenever Grif saw Simmons panicking, he always helped, and when Simmons saw Grif thrashing in his sleep, he woke him up and told him where they were, who they were with. When Simmons got too wrapped up in what he was doing and didn't sleep, Grif made him go to his bunk and rest. When Grif laid in bed for days out of something closer to depression than laziness, Simmons did his best to distract him and brought him food. But they didn't talk about it, and Simmons didn't  _ want  _ to talk about it.

“You’re okay. I'm just gonna...” Grif backed away, his hands coming down to his sides. “Simmons, breathe. You're okay. Can you come to the edge of the bed? You'll get more fresh air.”

Simmons had forced himself to the edge of his bunk, legs hanging down and his toes just resting on the cool concrete. His head spun so much he barely noticed Grif moving closer to him again, concern shining in his brown eyes.

“I'm just gonna sit down next to you. Standing is too much work.” Simmons knew, even through his panic, that Grif was sitting to get a closer look at his arm, not because he was being lazy.

But Simmons let him, and he let Grif gently grasp the edge of his jacket, easing it off of his arm. Part of Simmons had screamed to resist, to keep his secret, but he was so tired and scared and  _ fuck  _ he didn't want to have to hide this anymore. So as Grif pulled the jacket off, Simmons just sat there limply, eyes squeezing shut, trying to breathe normally. 

A sharp breath of air from Grif had made him open his eyes, and he saw why right away. His shirt was soaked from his armpit and chest to his elbow, red blood trying to ooze through the fabric. Simmons shut his eyes again and started counting his breaths- in for 5 seconds, out for 6. Rinse and repeat.

“Simmons. Can you take your shirt off?” Grif had done a great job of keeping his voice calm and nonchalant.

Simmons shook his head, grimacing as the movement made his head spin. Grif couldn't see his arm.

“Cool. I'm going to have to cut it off.” At that point, Grif must have thought that Simmons just wasn't capable of taking his shirt off. Simmons opened his eyes and brought his arm to his chest protectively, looking at Grif with wide eyes and shaking his head. Grif had swallowed, worry showing on his face.

“I'm not gonna hurt you, Simmons. Do you want me to get Doctor Grey instead? I thought-”

“No!” Simmons interrupted, his voice shaky but surprisingly loud. “I just...” He paused, his voice getting very quiet. “I don't want anyone to see.” 

Grif  _ had  _ to have been putting the pieces together. It was probably obvious by then. 

“Simmons, it'll be okay.” Grif was probably going to say more, but Simmons started to take his shirt off and that shut Grif up. It was too late, anyway. Even if he didn't take off his shirt and even if Grif hasn't been figuring it out already, Simmons would have had to see Doctor Grey and Grif would either be told or put the pieces together himself. 

So Simmons took off his shirt. He didn't look at Grif, but he heard the noise of surprise he made.

“Crap.” Grif's voice cracked. Simmons agreed wholeheartedly, as he had looked at his arm. The two cuts he'd suspected were the problem were bleeding, but one a lot more than the other. Rather than the soft beading of blood he's used too, Simmons had seen a steady stream, not much more than a trickle really, of blood. He must have been really out of it earlier, because if he'd seen the yellow fatty tissue when he made the cut, he would have used butterfly stitches or been more careful or  _ something. _

“Okay, uh, here.” Grif had moved to the table in the middle of the room, catching Simmons off guard, and Simmons saw Grif's red, watery eyes as he handed him a clean towel. “I'm going to radio Doctor Grey.” Simmons hadn't even bothered to argue. He had pressed the cloth to his arm and watched red slowly seep into the white cloth. He heard Grif talking into his radio, but didn't register the words in that numbness right after a panic attack, that almost-but-not-quite comfortable emptiness.

“She's on her way.” Grif turned back towards Simmons and sat back down next to him. “Fuck, Simmons...”

Simmons knew that it wasn't an expression of disappointment or an admonishment, but it still caused a painful pang in his chest. His head suddenly felt very heavy, and he'd leaned to rest on Grif's shoulder, his scabs pressing against warm skin. He let his eyes slide shut and he breathed out slowly, trying  _ not  _ to start panicking again.

“I'm sorry.” Simmons's voice was weak. 

“Me too.” Grif rested his hand on top of Simmons’s, his thumb rubbing circles into the skin. 

Doctor Grey had come in when they were like that, and she froze in the doorway for a second before making a beeline for Simmons. She'd worked quickly and gently, talking the whole time (she's always pretty gentle, despite how she acts), and after a few seconds she'd gotten the wounds to stop bleeding and a piece of gauze over the two worst ones.

“We should prooooooobably take you over to the infirmary right about now. It'll be easier and more comfortable to finish up in there. And I can run some scans on your robot arm!” Grey sounded excited as per usual, and Simmons appreciated how she was acting like this was just a normal injury. Grif stood up first, offering Simmons a hand which he gratefully took and he stood, only to have a rush of dizziness come over him, the corners of his vision going black as he stumbled into Grif. 

“Whoa!” Warm arms steadied him gently, and he had found himself leaning on Grif, too shaky and weak to stand straight. Embarrassment heated Simmons's cheeks, and his skin had flushed red.

Grey was right on him, flashing a light in his human eye and pressing two fingers to his neck. He had winced at the light, but otherwise just let her.

“Alrighty, you may have lost a little more blood than I thought. Grif, can you carry him?” Grey stuck her light into her bag and took a step back.

“Yeah, even though he's heavy.” Grif adjusted his hold on Simmons.

“What? You're the heavy one!” Simmons rolled his eyes. “And I can walk!” Honestly, he had been relieved at the familiar banter, even if he still felt like shit. 

“It'll be faster if you don't. Think about it, Simmons. The time we save by you not walking could be spent sleeping. Or eating.” Grif grinned at Simmons and picked him up into the fucking  _ bridal carry.  _

“OH MY GOD.” Simmons felt himself turning even more red by the second. Grey laid his jacket over him so his bare chest and arms were covered, and they straight to the infirmary after that, Simmons desperately trying not to meet the gaze of any soldiers who they passed by. 

When they got to the infirmary, Grey had kicked Grif out and told him to go be useful. Grif hesitated at the door, but left when she shooed him away. She did lots of things Simmons didn't pay a lot of attention to, took his blood pressure, cleaned his entire arm, used butterfly bandages on his freshest wounds(she said that he “unfortunately” could get away without normal stitches) and put a strange sort of bandage on the arm. It covered his whole arm and looked like a cast, except it was pliable even on the tough outer layer. She put an IV in, to replace fluids (or so she claimed. Simmons started feeling suspiciously warm and sleepy not long after) and asked Simmons if there were any more. He told her, and before he knew it, she was treating his leg too, putting a similar bandage on. When it was over, he was in a hospital gown, hooked up to a monitor and an IV drip, cleaned up, and very, very tired. Grey had told him not to leave the room and pointed out the call button should he need anything. 

And that's where Simmons is now. Staring at the plain white walls and wishing that he'd been smart enough to hide it better. Or to never start in the first place. He rolls into his back and sighs, trying to ignore the tears coming to his eyes and threatening to spill over. God, he is so fucking  _ stupid.  _ His metal arm finds the edge of the squishy bandage by his wrist, and he tries to get his robotic fingers under the fabric, only to find he can't. It's adhered to his skin tightly, and he suspects that if he tried from the other end he'd have just as little luck. Of course. That's probably why Grey used that particular bandage- so he couldn't hurt himself more. The worst part is that she was right to do so, because he'd just  _ tried to.  _

“Simmons?” Grif's voice startles Simmons, and he yanks his metal arm away from his flesh one.

“Yes?” His voice is squeaky with surprise.

“Hey, uh.” Grif walks into the room, shutting the door behind him softly. He's in different clothes, wearing cargo pants and a black undersuit shirt. “How're you doing?” He sits down in the plastic chair at Simmons's beside. 

“I'm...” How  _ is  _ he doing? “Tired.” Simmons looks away from Grif, suddenly aware of how helpless and stupid he must look, lying in the infirmary for something he did to himself. Great job, Simmons. Way to go. 

“Yeah, me too.” Grif's hand gently takes hold of his, and Simmons looks over, startled. Grif is looking at his arm, and Simmons realizes that Grif's eyes are red and damp. 

“Grif, I'm okay.” Simmons isn't sure if that's true or not, really. He's not about to die though, so it's probably at least a little honest. 

Grif's eyes meet his own. “Are you?” He stares at Simmons, and it feels like he's looking straight through his soul. “Because  _ this, _ ” he nods towards the bandage, “is not okay. Okay people do not do that. In fact, this whole situation is actually pretty far from okay.” Grif's voice rises in pitch and volume as he talks, and while he doesn't cry, Simmons thinks he's pretty close. Guilt burns in Simmons's chest. He did this to Grif. Is doing this to Grif.

“I...” Simmons squeezes his eyes shut. “I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.” Grif sighs, and Simmons feels his thumb starting to rub circles in his hand again. 

Simmons tries to focus on that and not how he's wasting medical supplies. How he's making a scene. How he's hurting Grif. How he's being a burden to the team, like always. He's a waste of their time and space and why didn't they just find another computer nerd who wasn't so  _ needy  _ and  _ obnoxious?  _ Simmons is unlikeable and incompetent and a  _ mess  _ and he-

“Stop thinking so much, Simmons.” Grif's other hand is touching his cheek. Simmons's eyes fly open and  _ wow  _ that chair is closer to the bed than he thought. He can't even think of something to say in reply, because Grif is right in his face. Before he can really process what's happening, Grif is pulling away, his hand still holding Simmons's. 

“With your anxiety, I thought not talking about it was the right thing to do. Even the  _ idea _ of anxiety seemed to stress you out.” Grif's not looking at Simmons anymore, staring straight at the wall behind him. “So I didn't talk about it, and I didn't ask if you were okay. I guess it's kind of my-” 

“It's not your fault.” Simmons interrupts when he hears Grif's voice getting tight.

“Okay, fine, but I never told you that you could talk to me because I thought it was implied, and I  _ know _ talking doesn't fix this stuff but it could have helped and even if you didn't want to talk, you would have known the option was there.” Grif swallows. “So uh. You can talk to me. If you want to. Whenever. About anything. And I won't tune you out if you tell me it's serious and not like, some shit Sarge wants done.” Simmons doesn't know what to say, but he's grateful and he can see the pain on Grif's face, so he sits up and hugs him. 

“Thanks, Grif.” His voice is muffled by Grif's shoulder. Grif's arms wrap around him, and Simmons can feel Grif relax slightly.

“I don't want you to keep hurting yourself.” Grif sounds the most serious and the most sad that Simmons has ever heard him, and it hurts his heart. 

“I know.” Simmons doesn't have anything better to say. He can't promise he'll stop, not when he's not sure he really wants to. 

“Doctor Grey said that she wants to keep you here for a while.” Grif's thumb starts rubbing circles into Simmons's back instead of his hand, and Simmons can feel himself relaxing and calming down, slowly unwinding.

“I kinda figured as much.” What else should he expect? She's not stupid; she definitely knows what happened to his arm and leg. No doctor in their right mind would let a patient who might hurt themselves be unsupervised. Well, Grey isn't so much in her right mind, but she's a good doctor at least.

“You're not gonna be able to do  _ any _ ass kissing.” Grif chuckles in a way that's clearly forced, but still, Simmons smiles a little.

“Wanna trade? You can be lazy in bed all day and I can do all the work.” Simmons shifts his head a little. “I'll even bring you food.”

“Ha, I wish.” Simmons can hear the smile on Grif's voice. Something occurs to Simmons.

“Does anyone else know?” He isn't sure what he wants to hear.

“Not exactly?” Grif sounds a bit hesitant. “I didn't want to tell them in case you didn't want them to know, but I mean, they know you're in the infirmary.” 

Simmons nods against Grif's shoulder. “I'll tell them later. Will you...” He trails off, uncertain.

“Yeah dude, I'll be there.” Grif sighs. “I just wish you didn't want to do  _ this  _ in the first place.”

Simmons sighs. “Yeah. Me too.”

 

 


End file.
